"Wot, no compree?" he asked. "Des woffs, des woffs. Blimey, these old Frenchies don't understand their own bloomin' language. Woffs, I said, missis—them wot we calls heggs."
A motor-car with dimmed head-lights dashed up, throwing showers of mud on either side like miniature cascades. From it descended a great-coated staff-officer. The ranks stiffened. Something was in the air. Information, perhaps, as to the place where the tired Tommies were to be billeted.
"Who's in charge of this platoon?" rasped out an authoritative voice.
"I am, sir," replied a subaltern fresh from home, a beardless youth of about nineteen, Stanley Dacres by name. "Details for the Second Wheatshires."
"Quite about time," rejoined the staff officer. "You are to take your men to the reserve trenches. Motor-buses for the first five miles. With luck you ought to be there by midnight. Arms and equipment all correct?"
"All correct, sir."
"Gas masks?"
"Two per man, sir."
"All right; see that one is returned. New pattern gas-helmets will be issued. A guide will accompany you. Good night and good luck."
The staff officer vanished in the darkness, his place being taken by a sergeant who had evidently emerged from an estaminet.